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Talk:Fanfictions/@comment-30128532-20170418234406
I wonder. This thought always came to my head when I was studying. It was just before I was about to make lunch for Quake and I when this curious thought hit my mind. I was reading Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them by Newt Scamander. I was scanning the page on dragon foxes, as I had done an umptillion times before. Dragon Fox Classification: xxxxx Extremely Rare - Endangered Only three recorded sightings of this fierce, savage beast. The body of a fox, with dragon wings and varied horns. Unique, colored markings On iconically soft pelt. Poached for skins and fur. Known to destroy whole kingdoms, as recent observations show. It always annoyed me, sometimes enraged me when I read these bitterly true words. My black, violet and white tail flicked as I recited the words in my head. Only three sightings of this fierce, savage beast. I sneered. I knew that I was strict when I wrote Quake her To-Do-List, but I knew I wasn’t savage. One of those “rare sightings” was me, and the other two were Mum and Dad. But that was years and years ago. Possibly even a few decades. What if…. No. That was stupid to even consider. Dragon foxes had died out except for the two others I knew, Neve and Flare- my parents. And to think, those rotten, terrible, cold-hearted fiends hunted us to near extinction! I’ll get those filthy, merciless cod spawns a taste of their own medicine one day. But the thought badgered and poked at the back of my mind, like a bothersome mosquito that wouldn’t go away. Nutmeg, my cockatrice disguised as a saw whet owl (Through a set of complex charms and spells), hooted exasperatedly. She knew that I was having that wondering, badgering, angering thought again. That was one of the reasons I loved Nutmeg. She understood me and I understood her. But sometimes it was a bit eerie the way that she always knew what I was thinking, like she was a Legilimens- very much like myself. “I know, Nutmeg,” I said, looking over my shoulder at her. She was sitting on her brass perch, right outside her cage. “But still, it might be true…” Nutmeg stared at me with unapproving in her large, amber eyes. I sighed and closed the book shut, my small, black paws gentle as I handled the gorgeous piece of literature. “You know what, you’re right,” I said. “It’s just Mum, Dad and I.” I got up from my couch and put the book back on its bookshelf gingerly. Nutmeg hooted sympathetically. “It’s fine, Nutty. C’mere, we can share a fish..” I said, and she flittered onto my arm as I walked up the wooden stairs up to the kitchen. I settled her on the table on the other side of the kitchen counter; she watched me hungrily as I chopped the fish with a long, handsome knife. I felt the familiar, pleasantly hot sensation as I blew a gust of fire onto its scaly flesh, turning the meat a lovely, golden brown. After a few minutes of preparing the trout, Nutmeg and I started to tear at it. I gave her a large portion- she had a huge appetite, being what she secretly was. But even a full stomach and a great taste left on my lips couldn’t usher the poking thought away. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps there was another one of her out there- “Ow!” Nutmeg had pecked the side of her head forcefully. She hooted, staring at me angrily. I rubbed the side of my head, wincing as my ears flicked backwards. “Nutmeg,” I said painfully. “Cut it out, will you? It gets a bit lonely, not having any others of your kind. You don’t know what that’s like, my girl. I’m glad you don’t.” I stroked the side of her pulchritudinous, oval-shaped head gingerly as she tore apart her share of trout. Quake strolled inside to the kitchen, where I was sitting quietly. “Hi, Fluff!” She said, using her powers to open the fridge door as she strolled over. I hesitated. I knew in the back of my head that she knew from the split-second that I had paused that I was thinking about it again. Apparently she had seen the light fold in my muzzle where I had winced. “What’s wrong?” She asked, her long, scarred face turning my way. I always hated how intimidating and on-the-spot those citrine eyes of hers could be. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you.” “You know I am,” I whimpered, my ears flat. “You have dozens, hundreds, thousands of other arctic wolves and Manipultives. I have no one. You know how hard it is to not think about it?” My wings crumpled on my back as she walked over, sitting down next to me. “It’s okay, Fluffy.” She said (as the bread, cheese and ham behind them made itself into a sandwich under the influence of a mystical blue glow). “Think about it- at least you don’t have anyone to argue with over who’s the fluffiest!” Quake’s face slowly fell from her offering smile to a frown as she realized that she had said the wrong thing. My eyes were shining with tears; I was stabbing the fishbones on my plate with a long, four-pronged fork. Quake reached over to my paw and I turned my similarly-colored eyes to lock with hers. She seemed to be offering to Crystal Dive, by the looks of it. I smiled tearily; Nutmeg lowered her head in sync with mine as I bowed my muzzle, looking at me from the side with a sort of encouraging humor. The dawn light poured through the entrance to the colossal burrow, like a mother reaching out to its child; an arm of sunlight desperately stretching into our home. It felt like a gesture of happiness from the sun that waited out, beyond the wall of treetops. I love my home.